


Five Minutes of Yard Time

by AdamantSteve



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Clint Has Issues, Closet Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Rimming, Suit Porn, doing stuff in the dark, jerking off, jerking off in a Starbucks bathroom, jerking off in a tree, jerking off in a vent, lots of jerking off, well more like earpiece sex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil feels bad about the long boring assignments where his assets have to just sit around all day long, so he gives them five minute privacy breaks every now and again to do what they like with no Phil looking over their shoulder.</p><p>It turns out every time Phil gives Clint a break, he jacks off. Once Phil figures that out... you know the rest.</p><p>PHLINT OTP 4 LIFE!!</p><p>First few chapters do not have porn but later chapters most certainly do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea of Clint and Phil dirty talking over the comms, but couldn't figure out how to turn that into a story. So then this happened. It starts off slow, I know, but it gets hot soon enough! 
> 
> This is the first thing I've written without a prompt, so I hope it's ok. :D

After years of working in the field, Phil Coulson was well aware that even on the most important missions, operatives needed to let off steam from time to time. So every few hours he'd give them five minutes where he'd go off comms and let them do whatever they wanted. Phil only asked that they’d make sure it was discreet and didn't leave any evidence. Dependent on the mission, they'd take a piss, have a cigarette, do some yoga or starjumps. Sometimes they'd make a phone call. Phil would take his earpiece out but keep an eye on them if he could. Five minutes was still long enough for something bad to happen, so he couldn't completely disappear, but he tried as much as he could to leave them be before popping his earpiece back in and telling them to get back to work.   
  
Sniping duty was tough, especially on a long mission. Being undercover was stressful enough, but laying down or crouching on a rooftop, staring down a scope for sometimes days at a time was not only physically draining but mentally exhausting too. Phil kept up conversation as much as he could to at least let their brains work out, but physically there was little he could do beyond giving them their five minute 'yard sessions'. On sniping duty they couldn't even move much beyond their post as they had to keep an eye to the scope the entire time. Every sniper on SHIELD staff had training on how to cope with essentially staying still and not falling asleep, learning how to piss into a bottle with one hand, how to stretch all your muscles without actually getting up and how not to get cramp. But still, Phil knew it was torture, and he always felt slightly guilty for having to assign such duties.   
  
Clint Barton was the best of the best, so more often than not, sniper duty fell to him. He hated it, much preferring the organic pull and release of a bow to a rifle, but he always did what he was told. Phil gave him five minutes as and when he could, Clint very politely saying thank you when Phil would come back online. Phil tried not to assign Clint too much of this torturous work as routine, but occasionally Clint would actually request it, despite complaining for much of the mission. Phil wasn't about to deny him: any of the other agents finding out he'd assigned them sniper duty when someone else - the best sniper in the world, no less - had requested it would cause a small riot. No one wants a gang of angry snipers after them.    
  
Phil enjoyed working with Clint, on any mission, but especially sniping ones. They'd usually be almost as boring for the handler as for the operative, but he and Clint usually had enjoyable, interesting conversations over the comms and the hours would grind by at a less torturous pace than normal. Phil only knew as much as he did about archery because of Clint, and Clint had been informed of most everything about Captain America by Phil. They would talk and talk, occasionally heading into deeper territory on the longest missions, Phil being able to fill in blanks in Clint's file and probably sharing more of himself than was strictly appropriate at the same time.    
  
To anyone listening in, they would think them friends. Good friends who enjoyed one another's company and most likely hung out at weekends or went to basketball games together, since that was one of their few shared interests.   
  
But they weren't. It was only on comms that they talked freely, Clint being direct and to the point with Phil when being given mission briefings, Phil acting likewise after Barton's lead. In person there was no hint of the things they'd shared and the friendship that Phil, at least, felt they had over comms. Perhaps he secretly wished they were more than simply agent and handler, but wishing was not SHIELD appropriate. Obviously Barton saw him as nothing more than his boss and a friendly voice to talk to when he had nothing better to do, and that was that.


	2. Belarus

"Permission to take five, sir?" Clint didn't usually  ask for a break, Phil was the one who determined when he got one, but there was no reason to deny him. The target was still sleeping and wasn’t showing any sign of waking up soon.   
  
"Go ahead." Phil said, pulling his earpiece out but keeping an eye on the grainy camera that was his own view into the compound. They were in a remote part of Belarus, cold and forbidding. Phil felt even worse for Clint's position on a roof in this cold.    
  
He had a bank of screens: one was the cam, another two had satellite imagery of surrounding streets, a fourth showed his emails and a game of Hearts, the fifth was another camera trained on the compound that was set just behind where Clint was stationed, and the sixth was currently blank aside from the desktop background that simply had the SHIELD logo on it. He minimised the cam that showed Clint to give him as much privacy as possible.   
  
Phil kept an eye on the cam showing the sleeping target, all fifty or so pixels making it look like little more than a blur. As long as the blur didn't move they were probably alright whilst Clint took a break. Phil looked over his emails and opened one from Steve Rogers - another forward. Phil deleted it without opening it. He needed a break himself, to get more coffee and empty his bladder of the last lot. He sighed. This was as boring a sniper mission as you'd expect. Waiting for the target to rendezvous with another target before taking them both out. Waiting and more waiting. Poor Clint having to lay on a hard cold roof til a diplomat's wife deigned to show up.   
  
After five minutes and a game of Hearts were over, Phil replaced his earpiece. He was about to call in to tell Clint he was back, but heard a muffled grunt and immediately panicked. "Barton, report." He couldn't figure out which tab the camera was in, clicking all over as he heard Clint reply, maybe a shade faster than normal. "Nothing to report sir. Target still in position."    
  
Phil finally got the cam up and Clint was in the same place he was when he left him, with nothing out of the ordinary as far as Phil could tell.   
"Are you alright, Agent?"    
"Sure am, sir."    
"Are you out of breath?"    
"No sir, it's just real cold up here."    
  
Phil studied him in the cam. The visible puffs of air coming out of Clint did seem slightly more frequent than usual, he thought. But it was hardly something to worry about, and he clean forgot about it when Clint announced "Target two is in position."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not 100% sure that Belarus is THAT cold but my rudimentary research shows it as pretty cold at least some of the time.


	3. Beirut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint makes some odd noises on his break.

That mission had wrapped up fine, two bullets fired, two killshots. They packed up and went home. The next one was almost identical, this time with Clint and Phil hiding out in a shell-pocked husk of a building on the edge of Beirut, Clint set up at the window scoping out a building a few blocks away. Phil was on the next floor below Barton, scoping out the same place with much the same equipment, albeit without a rifle attached to any of it.   
  
They played eyespy for a while, mostly spying concrete and stray dogs. Their conversation meandered onto childhood pets, Clint having had a dog for a while after it had wandered into the circus, Phil growing up with a golden retriever. He almost felt bad for how ridiculously white-picket-fence his life growing up had been in comparison to Clint's. He said as much, and Clint laughed.  
  
"Sure, you had piano lessons and meatloaf every week, but I bet I got laid more than you."   
Phil raised an eyebrow. "I don't know about that. I was pretty popular in the cheer squad."   
Clint laughed again. Phil enjoyed those laughs, they were a rare treat.   
"The cheer squad?!" Phil smiled to himself. He'd loved being one of only three guys in his school's cheer team. "Well, as cliche as it might be, one of those guys was my first boyfriend. So don't be so sure of yourself, Barton."   
Clint laughed again, but with maybe a little less ebullience than before.   
"Anyhow, you can't rag on me being a cheerleader,  you were in the circus."   
Phil expected Clint to come back with his usual unimpressed response to people making jibes about the circus: it had toughened him up, he learned a lot of useful skills, it's like a family, they trained lions, etc etc, but he didn't, and Phil felt like maybe he’d hurt Clint’s feelings. They were silent for a short while.  
  
"Hey Coulson, can I have some yard time?"   
"Oh, uh, yeah. Right now?" Clint hummed yes. Phil checked his watch for the time and said "Alright, you're good to go," as he took out his earpiece. It certainly used to be unusual for Clint to ask permission rather than waiting to be told. Phil might have to sign him up for some endurance training.   
  
The target was nowhere to be seen, other intel had them out of the country so this might be a total bust anyway. The five minutes were almost up, Clint was most likely done doing the lunges he liked to do when there was the space and shelter for them. As Phil replaced the earpiece he heard... something. Probably just Clint's lunging. Maybe he was doing pressups. He sounded out of breath and was huffing a little. Phil checked his watch. Clint stopped making noise after a final few huffs with twelve seconds of his five minutes to spare.   
  
"Agent." Phil said.  
Clint definitely sounded out of breath this time, "Thanks, sir."   
"No problem. Don't overdo it. We need your energies on the mission." Phil cautioned.   
"No sir. Just uh, scratching an itch, you know?"   
Phil narrowed his eyes. Maybe he did know. 


	4. Brisbane

That mission was a bust. The targets were in Thailand, of all places. They packed up and started to make their way home, but Phil received a call just as they arrived at the airport.    
"Sorry, Barton. The Lakers’ll have to wait. We're going to Australia." Anyone else would allow themselves a moment of exasperation. Clint had courtside tickets to see his favourite team in his favourite city (New York), and he was going to miss it because some asshole needed to get shot in the head halfway round the world. But not Barton. He just nodded his head. "Understood, sir."   
  
\--   
  
"I'm sorry about the tickets." Phil said once they were set up in a hotel room in Brisbane. He'd tried to apologise a few times over the course of their journey, but Phil wasn't satisfied that it was enough. He felt terrible. "It's fine, sir." Clint set to, screwing the parts of his gun together and looking out the window. He was all business. He always was, unless he had an earpiece in. Phil had an idea.    
  
"Barton, finish setting up. I'll be right back." Phil threw him an earpiece as he put his own in. They didn't need to separate but damn him if he wasn't going to apologise properly. He left the room, ostensibly to get them both something to eat. He walked down and out of the hotel, asking Barton to "report?" a couple of times. When he was outside the hotel and could hold up a phone so it looked like he wasn't just talking to thin air, he called up.    
  
"Barton. I'm really sorry."    
"God, Coulson. It's fine. I know you didn't mean for this to happen. It's not that big a deal."   
"I know, but I'm sorry."   
"Stop saying that!"   
"Well, do you forgive me?"   
"Yes!" He sounded exasperated.    
"Well can I at least do something to make it up to you?" Phil meant get him something expensive on the SHIELD credit card or take them both to a fancy restaurant and do the paperwork to explain that there was nowhere else they could possibly eat. He didn't expect:   
"Alright. Tell me about your first boyfriend."   
Phil was taken aback. "Really?"    
"Yeah. The one on the cheer squad."   
  
Phil took his time wandering around and looking in shop windows, telling Barton about Clayton, the first boy he kissed and actually the person he'd lost his virginity to, aged all of 17.   
"What do you want to know?"   
"What did he look like?"    
"He was sort of broad, stocky, you know? Not fat, just all muscle packed onto a small frame. He could have been in the wrestling team but, uh, the other kids didn't really want a  fag on the team."   
"When did you start dating?"   
"We were friends since we started school. He would come over and we'd do our homework together. Then one day we kissed... and that was that."   
"Did you tell anyone?"   
"No, but it was kind of an open secret. My parents didn't mind but we hardly spread it around."   
"Did you ever do anything together at school?"   
  
Phil laughed at the memory. "Well, sometimes we snuck under the bleachers to make out. Mrs Schlatter caught us once but we played it off like we were trying to find  snakes . She actually bought it! When we got caught jerking each other off in the showers that was harder to explain away."   
"You what?!"   
"Yep." Phil laughed, happy to hear Clint sounding like his normal over-comms self again.   
"There's no way that Agent Phil Coulson ever swapped  handjobs in the shower at school."   
"Well, that's classified, so don't go spreading it around."   
"Oh no, sir, I wouldn't. I swear."    
"It's alright, I know you wouldn't."    
  
Phil had wandered a fair distance and ought to get back. He found a deli and ordered them both the most expensive sandwiches on the menu. When he returned, Barton was set up at his window.    
  
"I'm back." Phil said when Barton didn't turn around.    
"Hi. No sign of the target."   
Phil's face fell the tiniest bit. It didn't matter what they seemed to say on comms, Clint didn't even want to look at him. He sighed.    
"I brought you a sandwich. Do you wanna have five minutes?"   
"Uh, no, maybe in a minute? I definitely don’t wanna miss this asshole this time."   
Phil left the sandwiches on the bed and walked over to stand next to Clint and look through the scope. Clint turned as he approached, making room. Phil looked at his face, his eyes wouldn't meet his and he looked a little flushed.    
"Uh actually maybe I... can I take my five now?"   
"Yeah... I said you should." Clint was acting weird. He turned around awkwardly, back still to Phil before walking briskly to the bathroom. Phil started a countdown on his watch when he heard the lock click. Phil shrugged and looked down the scope as he took a bite of his sandwich.   
  
When four minutes had gone by, Phil swore he heard another of Barton's little mystery grunts before the chain was pulled. When he came out a minute later, his face was wet with cold water and pink beneath it. "Had to take a dump." Clint said, tossing a small towel onto the bed. “Thanks for sharing.” Phil replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it'll get there soon ok


	5. Bordeaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil FINALLY figures it out.

After Brisbane, they could finally go home. They both had a couple of days leave in which neither of them left the base. Phil bumped into Clint a few times in the mess hall and at a briefing or two, but they didn't exchange much more than pleasantries. Phil was used to it.  
  
Their next mission took them to France, a place Phil might have been more excited to go if they weren't in the ass-end of nowhere. They were undercover for once: no sniping. Phil felt relief that he didn't have to torture Clint anymore, but he seemed to feel the opposite. He was awkward all the way there and even once they were set up in a cruddy ‘hotel’ he wouldn't relax. They were meant to be two American businessmen conducting a deal with a wine merchant in the area. A wine merchant who they also believed was stockpiling liquid explosives in his unused wine vats.   
  
They didn't have much to do beyond eat at one of the two lacklustre cafes in town or go to the hotel bar for the first day and a half, the target having disappeared since they arrived, despite the meeting scheduled with two wealthy men who wanted to buy his wine. He might have cottoned on to their cover, but until they could ascertain that for certain, they had to stay put.  
  
"Bored?" Phil asked Clint, sitting on a ratty chair looking out at scrubby vineyards. He shrugged. He looked uncomfortable in the suit trousers and shirt he had to wear for their cover. He always looked uncomfortable when Phil was around.  
"Want me to tell you a story?"   
Clint visibly stiffened. "No, it's ok sir."   
Phil frowned. Fair enough. They'd just sit in silence some more.   
"Do you want to go for a walk or something?" Someone had to stay in the room, but since there was nothing to do other than wait for a call or email, Phil had no qualms letting Barton out of his sight for a while.   
"Uh yeah. Thanks."   
"Take your thing." Phil gestured to the earpieces that rested on the desk. Clint took one and left.  
  
"This town is boring as shit, sir." Clint said, still audible through the wall as he walked away.  
"I agree." Phil said.   
"I just wanna..." Clint began, trailing off.  
"What do you want, Clint?"   
"Nothing, sir."  
Phil could hear him walking down the street through the earpiece.   
  
"Do you want me to tell you a story now?" Phil asked. He heard Clint draw in a breath before nonchalantly saying, "Sure, if you want."  
"Did I ever tell you about the time I had to blow the president of Uruguay?"  
Clint spluttered. "What! No?" Phil grinned. He loved chipping away at Clint's shell of disinterest.  
"Really? I thought the junior agents still talked about that one. Maybe I'm losing my touch."  
"I don't think so, sir." Phil rolled his eyes.  
"Alright so you want to hear it?"   
"Hell yeah."  
"Well, back before I was a handler, as you know I used to do undercover ops."  
"It's your everyman looks."  
"Thanks, Barton. You're too kind. Anyway, there was some belief that Uruguay had nuclear missiles. I was sent in by our good friend Nick Fury to snoop. I was undercover as a security guard for one of his top generals. They didn't trust their own army so drafted in mercenaries."  
"You, a mercenary?"  
"I'll ignore that. So the president comes in when I'm standing around being a hired goon, barks some orders at his guys, then points at me and tells me to come with him. I figured I'd been made and was about to get killed at best, tortured and thrown in Uruguayan prison at worst, but he takes me to his room and asks me to sweep for bugs. I did sweep for them, finding nothing and adding my own.”  
"Nice."  
"Thanks. And then I'm standing there expecting him to whip out a gun."  
"Did he whip out something else?"  
"He did! He whipped out this great big  schlong and told me to ‘wrap my pretty american mouth around it.’"  
"So what did you do?"  
"I did it! I was just relieved that he wasn't pulling my fingernails out. The worst part was, I knew Nick-  _Fury_ , was listening to the whole thing, and that he'd never let me live it down. And he never has. Luckily for me I'm kind of amazing at giving blowjobs, so the guy was done in a matter of minutes, and I managed to get us some primo DNA evidence which later had him convicted for human rights violations."  
"Jesus fucking christ." Barton laughed. "That is insane. Fuck!"   
Phil grinned to himself.   
"Hey, Barton, could you get some kind of food to bring up? And a coffee would be good too."  
"Sure, boss. Uh, do you mind if I take five while I wait for the food? I need to use the bathroom."  
"We aren't on sniper-mode now, you can take five whenever you want." Phil laughed.  
"Oh, right. Ok."  
  
Phil played a game of solitaire absentmindedly, listening to Clint order them sandwiches in stilted French. It was almost second nature to have another set of sounds going on in one ear, so Phil forgot to take out his earpiece when he heard Clint ask where the bathroom was. Phil heard the sound of piss tinkling into a toilet bowl, watching cards cascade across the screen. He started a new game.   
  
Then, Phil heard movement. Rhythmic shuffling sounds that he couldn't place. Then a soft sigh, and another one. And another one. What the hell was he even doing? Clint huffed over and over again, groaning occasionally. When he breathed the words "pretty american mouth" and gave out a small strangled groan, Phil realised with a gasp what Barton must be doing. He was  _masturbating.   
_   
Phil panicked. He'd just gasped down the comm link right into Barton’s ear. "Shit! I stubbed my toe!" He cried, trying to cover the gasp as pain-related. He should have taken off the communicator, he just wasn't thinking. He strained his ears. Barton was silent now. Phil didn't say anything, just listened to Clint flush the toilet, wash his hands and pay for the sandwiches. After what seemed like an appropriate amount of time, Phil fiddled with his communicator to make it sound like he'd just put it back on. "Everything alright, Agent?" Phil asked.  
"Sure is. You like brie, I hope?"  
"Yeah, perfect." Phil replied.  
  
When Clint came back into their room he stared Phil straight in the face with something like accusation in his eyes. But Phil had been able to train his features not to betray his emotion, negative or otherwise, so he looked blankly back.   
"Did you get coffee?"   
Clint held up a bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER WILL CONTAIN PORNS I PROMISE xx


	6. Borneo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil tests out his theory.
> 
>  
> 
> THE PORN BEGINS!

  
  
That mission was a waste of time: the winemaker had just died of natural causes, leaving behind two tanks of explosive material that were taken care of by the French government. But Phil had other things to think about. He'd finally realised what those little grunts and sighs had been. Clint had been jacking off on every mission they’d been on! Phil was impressed that he could even do it in five minutes.   
  
Phil thought over their last few missions. Was Clint Barton really jacking off to _him_? He'd had always appreciated Clint as attractive in much the same way one might appreciate a beautiful view. Something objectively lovely but not attainable. He’d always been good at denying things to himself, and Clint was one of those things. Not even worth thinking about.   
  
Maybe it was just a coincidence.   
  
Maybe.  
  
\--  
  
“Comfortable?” Phil asked. Clint had been sitting in the crook of some branches high in a tree overlooking a HYDRA base in the forests of Borneo since 5am and it was now 7.30. Phil was a quarter of a mile or so off. He could barely make Clint out, camouflaged as he was with green and brown paint streaked across his face and arms. The tins were at Phil’s feet in the hut he was running rudimentary operations from. They were here to watch and provide backup, as undercover Agents Estevez and Blake released some prisoners from inside the compound.   
  
“Yes.” Clint lied. He’d been quiet all morning. Since France, in fact. This was the first time Phil had gotten him on comms.  
  
If everything went to plan, this would be a casualty-free operation, made to look like the prisoners had escaped on their own, but if it all went south, Hawkeye was there to take out anyone who tried to stop them. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to, and HYDRA would go on thinking that this base was still unknown to SHIELD and the undercover agents could remain so.   
  
Since the undercover guys had no comm links of their own, all Clint could do was watch, and all Phil could do is ask Clint to tell him what he saw. And try to rile him up enough to test out his theory.  
  
“Report.”  
“Same as before, sir. Everyone’s asleep.”  
Phil sighed. They had to be here early so they could set up under cover of darkness, but perhaps he'd been a little overzealous with his scheduling.   
  
“Want a story?”  
“Uh, no thanks, sir.”  
Phil ignored him.   
  
“So I had this mission back in 1993. Undercover at MIT. There were reports of AIM trying to recruit students there so I was sent in to test that theory. The set up made me look like a Stark-level genius, so I was put into the advanced graduate class of the target: a professor with possible ties to AIM.”  
Clint didn’t respond. Phil continued.  
  
“Our intel showed that aside from his interest in gardening and Phil Collins, he subscribed to a magazine called “Secretly Outside”, which was a pornographic journal about sex in public.”  
“Uh huh.” Clint sounded the kind of bored that Phil recognised as schooled disinterest. Maybe he heard him swallow, too.  
  
“So I sat in class, right at the back of the auditorium. About twenty minutes into the class, as per my orders, I just opened my fly and pulled out my cock. Let it lay there on my leg for ten minutes."  
Phil definitely heard Clint swallow and exhale through his nose.  
  
“The plan was for me to jack off and he’d see, hopefully providing me with an in. But I couldn’t do it. The pressure, the fact that anyone might turn around at any moment, the fact that I had to look this guy in the face as I did it... it was looking to be a disaster. I also had my handler in my ear telling me to get on with it, which didn’t help...”  
Phil let a short silence run on between them, waiting to see if Barton would ask him to elaborate. It dragged out too long. Phil rejoiced when Clint finally gave in.  
  
“So what happened?”  
“Well I tried to think of anything that’d help, get me in the mood. The target hadn’t even noticed me yet, and the class would be over soon. I finally thought of something and started getting somewhere, trying to be quiet so as not to alert anyone around me but trying at the same time to make enough of a show of it to get Professor Extrovert’s attention.”  
“What did you think about?” Clint interrupted.  
  
Phil figured he could lie, but the truth was as good as anything he could make up.  
“Captain America.”   
Clint huffed a nervous laugh.   
“Anyhow. The guy finally looks at me and stops what he's saying mid-sentence, I panic that everyone’ll turn around to see what he was looking at, but he just goes back to what he was saying. By now, the class is minutes from being over, and I'm not anywhere near close, so I have a decision to make: do I go for it and try to finish - possibly alerting other people, or do I close up shop and have to walk out of this place with a tent pole in my pants?”  
Phil could definitely hear Clint breathing now.  
  
“I decide the tent pole is a better option. The guy has already seen what I was doing, so mission accomplished for the day, and I could just sit and wait for everyone else to leave whilst I waited for my guy to wilt.”  
“Your guy.”   
Phil ignored him. If he was going to tell this story he wanted to tell the whole thing, but playing it up might garner faster results. He decided to elaborate.   
“I was so hard, Clint. I’d never thought about it before, but it was kind of exhilarating being out in the open with my cock in my hand. Knowing that at any moment someone might turn around and see. I could barely get it back in my pants it was so hard, and once I did, every movement I made just felt _so good_. It was all I could do not to come right-”  
“Sir. May I please have five minutes?” Clint interrupted. Phil’s cock twitched.   
  
“No.” Phil replied.   
“What? But-”  
“Agent, report?”  
Phil heard Clint breathing heavily and something like a whine. After a moment, Clint said, “Same as before. No activity.”  
  
“Report on Agent’s condition?”  
Phil heard him swallow. “Uh, I’m... fine, sir.” He didn’t sound fine.   
_“Report on your condition,_ Barton.”  
“I don’t know what you _mean_ , sir.”  
Phil licked his lips. “I think you do, Clint.” He could hear him breathing.

  
“Are you hard?”  
As if it was being pulled out of him like a knife, Clint raggedly admitted, “uh huh.”  
Phil breathed in through his nose. He was hard too.  
“Do you want to touch yourself?”   
“No.” Clint lied again.  
“What if _I_ want you to?” Phil asked, palming himself. Clint breathed a few more times.  
“Really, sir? I-"  
“Touch yourself, agent.”  
  
Phil heard a little sigh and the shift of some fabric. This was insane: they were on a mission. But Phil's hand was already pushed under the waistband of his pants.  
  
“Talk to me, Barton. Tell me what you’re doing.”  
“Uh, I uh, have my hand on my dick.”  
“Did you take it out or is it still in your pants?”  
“I took it out?”  
Phil took his out too. He could imagine Clint in his fatigues and covered in brown and green, his cock jutting out pink and bright against the dark colours.   
“What do you like to think about, Barton? Do you think about me sucking it?”  
Clint actually _whimpered_. “Y-yes.” Phil started to stroke his dick. Clint sounded like a wreck, and _he’d made him_ that way. 

“Do you think about sucking _my_ cock?” Phil could definitely hear Clint jerking off now.   
“Uh huh.”  
  
“Report.”  
Clint sounded like he was in pain.  
“I’m jerking off thinking about sucking your dick, sir.”  
This was madness: if anyone found out about this, they’d at the very least be put on permanent desk duty. Let alone the risk of the terrorists they were surrounded with seeing one of them whilst they were both so _indisposed_. Phil had never been more turned on. He cupped his balls with one hand while he jerked his cock with the other. It wouldn’t be long.  
  
“Sir, please.”  
“What do you want, Barton?”  
“Let me have five... _one_! One minute. Please.”  
“What do you need it for, Clint?”  
“Please, sir. I need. I need to come.” Clint’s voice cracked. Phil could hear him furiously beating off.  
  
“No.”  
“Sir! I can’t. Fuck.” Clint sounded like he was going to cry.  
“What if I order you to?” Clint just keened in response.   
Phil breathed as he gave the order.  
“Take the shot, Agent.”  
Clint - too loudly - groaned as he came, crying a whispered “fu-uck.” Phil came a moment later, picturing Clint, head thrown back and coming with thoughts of him running through his mind. He cursed himself for the DNA evidence form he’d have to fill in as he sprayed half of the hut with cum.   
  
He allowed them both a moment to collect themselves before asking,  
“Agent, report?”  
“No change. There’s no movement in the camp.”

  
And it was like it had never happened.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so hard to write, I couldn't come up with a decent story for Phil to tell Clint, so this is the third attempt and he barely even got through the story! I have the whole thing written up, plus another one of Phil undercover in Germany. Maybe I'll dump them all somewhere when this is finished.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments by the way! I'm glad other people are enjoying this silly idea I had. I'm really pleased with how it's turning out!


	7. Boston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint turns the tables on Phil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbetaed because I have no patience and wanted to post this asap.

Happily, that assignment had ended with zero casualties, 20 escaped prisoners and two still-undercover agents. The hut was set to burn down with a timer so that no DNA evidence was left, and Clint and Phil returned to New York unharmed. 

 

Nothing was said of their _conversation_ , as Phil had taken to calling it in his head, though his thoughts had returned to it frequently, especially when he watched Clint sleep on the plane home. Clint had woken up and looked back at him for a moment before closing his eyes again. His face had betrayed no emotion, negative or otherwise. It had been just as plain since.

 

Phil was slightly concerned that Clint might request a transfer, or perhaps report him to a superior, but nothing came of it, and Phil wasn't surprised. Clint has been jerking off on missions, which wasn't against the rules per se, but would certainly count against him if he tried to get Coulson in trouble for it.

 

Back at HQ, they did the same bordering-on-rude terse conversation when their paths crossed, with nothing out of the ordinary for any outside observer to notice. 

 

\--

 

Phil didn't want to push his luck, so didn't schedule himself as Clint's mission handler for a while. It wasn't until a mission in Boston that they worked together again, a few weeks after Borneo. SHIELD needed a set of documents that were being held in a CIA office building there and the CIA were being reluctant to give them access. Fury decided that sending Clint in to retrieve them would be quicker than trying to convince them to just hand them over.

 

Clint had burrowed himself deep into the ventilation system and was above the storage facility the documents were held in, but had discovered four CIA agents rifling through boxes right next to the ones he needed access to. All he could do was wait for them to finish before dropping down, straightening out his CIA-esque suit and tie, and grab the relevant pieces of paper. 

 

"Agent, report." Phil said, sitting in a Starbucks across the street from the office. He'd put a hands free phone earpiece on over the one he was using to talk to Clint so he didn't look too out of place, talking to himself over a coffee.

 

"They're still there. They've gone through about half the stuff in the boxes they pulled." Clint spoke evenly, he was high up and secure enough that the CIA agents were unlikely to hear him.

Were Phil in a more private location he might have tested the waters and asked if Clint wanted him to tell a _story_ , but since he was sitting in a crowded cafe, he refrained. He read the trashy novel he'd brought with him for a short while.

 

It was Clint who broke the silence.

 

"Tell me a story?" 

Phil let out a silent breath of... relief? It certainly addressed the elephant in the room. So Clint wanted a repeat performance. But now wasn't the time for Phil to regale Clint with stories of his sexual exploits, not sitting on a coffee stained armchair in a room full of people.

"Barton, I... I would, but now's not really... appropriate."

Barton stayed silent a moment before asking, "You want me to tell _you_ a story?" 

Phil sat up. "Uh." He swallowed, unsure of how to respond. "Not-"

 

Clint ignored him and cleared his throat.

"When I was in the circus-"

"Barton!" Phil was scandalised. He was _in public._ But Clint continued.

"We used to travel all over the country. I probably have at least one story for each of the contiguous United States. Now Utah, you'd think with all the Mormons it'd be really dry for a red blooded eighteen year old boy, but those Mormons were _filthy_."

 

"Clint." Phil warned. Trying to sound commanding but voice wavering and giving him away.

"After a show one time, I was in my costume still, have you seen that? It was a really tight, purple thing?"

Phil had seen it, and the young Clint Barton had been pretty devastating in it. All hard muscle and fierce eyes. Phil tried to focus on the book he'd brought to with him.

 

"It doesn't matter." Clint was saying. "I looked hot. After the show these two mormon kids, about my age, are hanging around my trailer. I figure they're there to teach me the word of god or some bullshit, dressed all smart in their creepy little suits. They ask to come in and I say sure, I figure all the punky goth junk I have will scare 'em off. So they come in and sit down, are asking if I have any weed. I guess they're trying to rebel or something. I didn't have any - it makes my eyes hurt - but then they ask if I wanna suck their dicks! I don't even know these assholes, so obviously I say no, and then they ask if they can suck _my_ dick. I figure sure, what kind of an asshole turns down a free blowjob, even if it was from these weirdos. And they were pretty good looking in their way."

 

Phil hadn't really heard Clint talk like this before. Even in the mess hall he was quiet and reserved, watching rather than participating, and even then, rather than gesticulating or getting animated he'd make a few sparse comments. This was a whole new kind of Clint. Phil kind of liked it, despite himself.

 

"Barton. This is inappropriate. Stop."

"No."

Phil bit off a swear word. "Clint-"

"I still have it, you know. My costume. Might be a little tighter now."

Phil looked heavenwards. "Barton." He hissed. "Shut the fuck up." Clint laughed and continued his story.

"So the Mormon boys-"

"Clint."

"That outfit- you couldn't just open a fly, you had to take the whole thing off, so one of them kneels down and starts licking me through the spandex, the other one's pulling at the neck of this thing trying to get it off, whispering in my ear about how I'm a slut and a whore and all that."

" _Clint_." Phil realised his jaw was tensed. He looked around the room and was relieved no one seemed to be paying him any attention.

 

"And he finally manages to get my arms out, I'm just standing there dazed at these two prim and proper townies even knowing those words let alone making me hard in my costume, which was now sopping wet, by the way."

Phil swallowed, loud enough that Clint heard it.

"Do you need to take five, sir?" Phil could hear the grin in his voice.

"Fuck you Barton."

"Oh if _only_." He said, sounding like a smugger version of Tony Stark.

 

Phil breathed. He'd been doused with sex pollen in the past, could definitely withstand a weird sex story from Clint Barton in the field. He gritted his teeth and studied the book he'd been trying to read.

"Do you want to hear the end of my story?"

"Go ahead." Phil said, defiantly. He could listen to some story without being unprofessional and getting hard in front of a bunch of probably-CIA-agents in a Starbucks.

 

"So these kids finally get my costume all the way off and the one on his knees starts sucking my cock like his life depended on it. The other one's still behind me and kissing my neck, then he starts pinching my nipples, squeezing my ass, and I'm just about dying." 

Phil read the same sentence of his book for the fifteenth time. 

"Then he kneels down behind me. I don't know what he's doing back there but suddenly he's licking my ass. This bible basher is rimming me while his brother or whoever he was is sucking my cock." 

Phil dug his fingernails into his thigh to give himself something other than the mental image of Clint Barton getting rimmed and blown at the same time to focus on.

"I was only eighteen. Up to that point, no one'd ever gone near my ass, so I'd had no idea that it'd feel so _fucking amazing_."

 

Phil's trousers were peaked now, thankfully beneath the table. He glanced over to the bathroom, a torturous 12 feet away. It was occupied. 

"What are you trying to accomplish here, Clint?" Phil ground out. 

"Trying to ruin you as much as you ruin me." Clint replied smoothly. 

Phil swallowed again, throat too dry. 

 

"You know, I think about hiding under your desk and sucking you off while you talk to Fury, or _Steve_. Make you come to pieces just as you try to hold it together. Mess up that perfect show of control you're always putting on for everyone." 

Phil breathed evenly, trying not to give himself away to Barton despite knowing he most definitely already had.

 

"You want it too, don't you? I bet you've wanted it for years. All those missions just the two of us, I could have been blowing you all the way to New Mexico, Phil."

Phil's throat was dry again. "Barton." He didn't know what else to say. "Stop?" It came out as a question rather than an order and Phil knew he was done. Someone left the bathroom and Phil gathered his briefcase and jacket, leaving the book to save his seat. He held the jacket in front of him to cover his arousal, which he immediately let free as soon as the bathroom door was closed. 

 

"So what else would you do?" He asked, leaning against the door. 

"Are you in the bathroom?" Clint asked, innocent except for his rough voice.

"Yes, I am. Are you fucking satisfied?" Phil snapped.

"You want some help?"

Phil was torn between wanting to hear more and not wanting to give Clint the satisfaction of giving in. But Clint made the decision for him.

 

"I'm touching myself, sir. Hand on my dick, thinking about you all riled up over me in my old costume. Bending me over your desk."

Phil spat into his hand and worked his fist over his cock. "Yeah? Bending you over and what?" 

"Fucking me, _sir_." Phil let out a tiny moan. "That's what you want, isn't it? To split me open on your cock? Pull my hair and whisper my name as you ream me open?" Phil was close. 

"Is that what you want, Barton?" 

"Fuck yeah. Telling me when to come, making me take your dick. Making me beg for it." 

Phil was holding on with the tips of his fingers, wanting to hold out 'til he heard Clint panting too, wanting to hear him come at his command.

 

"Are you gonna come, Barton?" 

Clint grunted. "Not 'til you tell me to. Sir." 

"I wanna hear it. I wanna hear you come." 

Clint sighed as he came, the sound tipping Phil over the edge, coming across the bathroom floor.

"Shit." He gasped. Next time, _next time,_ he'd need to prepare better, not shoot his load across a public bathroom, which was unsanitary as well as being a total DNA treasure trove for anyone looking to find it. 

 

He was breathless, could hear Clint panting in his ear. He cleaned himself up as best he could, splashed his face with water and dried off with paper towels. The cum on the floor would have to remain. He'd need to fill out at least three forms about this, explaining why he just _came in a public bathroom_. Luckily he knew how to bury files well enough that no one would see them but him.

 

"Are you alright, Barton?" Phil asked, both of them still panting. 

"Yessir." 

"Did you, uh... Do I need to fill out a DNA form for you?" 

Clint huffed out a laugh. "Nah. I'm good. Maybe you need more practice, sir. With your aim."

Phil let a small bubble of tension-relieving laughter out. He wanted to _talk_ about this, but he knew he had only a few moments before Clint would shut down and go back to business again. He tried to think of something clever to say. Something that would get across... what? Phil didn't even know _how_ he felt about all this. 

 

"Thank you." Phil said. Cringing as he said it. What did that mean? _Thank you_?

Clint sounded amused. "You're welcome." 

 

Phil patted down his shirt and checked himself in the mirror. He looked a little flushed but otherwise ok. He opened the bathroom door, relieved to see no one looking in his direction. He returned to his cold coffee and book, looked out the window to the building in which Clint was currently stuck in an air vent.

 

"Report?" 

"I think they're almost done, sir."

Phil ordered another coffee.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, sorry this took an age to write, I wrote a whole chapter which I wasn't happy with, so split it up and decided to have this chapter to buffer between the last and the MEGA PORN that will be in the next one.


	8. Brussels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally touch penises! But it can never be that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be the final chapter but there's TWO MORE COMING! Sorry, the next ones won't take half as long (I hope).  
> EDIT now it's three!

The next time they worked together was only due to the divine intervention of a slippery airport floor and Agent Foster breaking his ankle. How Barton had been assigned to replace him, Phil never would get to the bottom of, but Fury being a jerk was high on the list of probable reasons.

  

Phil had tried to talk to Clint on multiple occasions and somehow Clint had managed to evade him every single time. Phil had emailed, called, texted; he left a memo in Clint's pigeon-hole in desperation, even though it was stuffed with memos dating back to 2006. He'd even left a note in the vent on his office ceiling, but nothing had worked. He couldn't bring himself to ask someone else if they'd seen him, because it felt both utterly juvenile and also completely unprofessional. What kind of a handler was he if he couldn't even track down his own asset?

 

But then Foster had done that spectacular prat-fall and Barton had caught the next flight out to Brussels instead. He'd be the bodyguard/driver/security to Phil's undercover dignitary at the handover of a small parcel of land from Serbia to the citizens of Latveria.

 

They still hadn't talked, but there was nothing for it. 

 

\--

 

When Clint entered the ballroom, unannounced, there weren't hushed voices or gasps of amazement, but Phil practically choked on his champagne. A set of white marble steps led into the opulent room and Clint stood atop them, looking over the crowd dispassionately. He would have seen Phil but made no pause, just kept scanning the room like the various other serious men in suits dotted around the room did.

 

But Phil just stared. He'd never seen Clint in a suit before, and whoever it was that had tailored that thing was definitely being underpaid because it was a work of _art_. It looked like a simple black suit, tailored, as was Phil's, with myriad hidden pockets and compartments for weapons and gadgets. But it fit Barton like a glove. The crisp lines hiding the expanses of hard muscle that Phil knew were beneath the fabric, collar and tie around Clint's neck so rigid and straight compared to the t-shirts and combat gear he was so used to seeing him in. He'd never even imagined Clint in a suit before, and it was completely short-wiring his brain.

 

"See something you like, sir?" Barton's voice said in Phil's ear. Phil jumped and realised he'd been gawping at him openly. Clint wasn't looking in his direction and Phil felt almost relieved at that; though with Hawkeye, just having his eyes open was enough to take in pretty much anything within a half-mile radius.

 

Phil swallowed, his throat dry. He turned away towards the window before replying into his champagne glass. "Your suit is..." Phil ran through _amazing, sexy, incredible, giving me a boner, the hottest thing I've ever seen_ in his mind before settling lamely on, "very appropriate." and rolling his eyes at himself as he said it. 

 

He wanted - _needed_ to talk to Clint properly. If this was the only time he could do it, then as unprofessional as it was, it would have to be today. "Listen, I-"

"Tell me a story?" Clint interrupted.

"...What?" 

"Tell me a story."

"No, Clint. Are you insane?"

"Tell me one last one before you get rid of me."

"What?" Phil was utterly confused.

"You're so desperate to talk to me. You must have a reason. Are you transferring me or actually kicking me out?"

"What are you talking about?"

 

Clint caught his eye for a split second from the other side of the room, between two women with big hair. 

"I'll give _you_ a story if you want."

"Barton, would you shut up for a second? I tried to talk to you because I wanted to ask you... I wanted to ask if you'd consider... pursuing a relationship with me.” The words felt so stilted and awkward and _official_ that Phil cringed. But how else could he say it? He continued before Clint could respond. “Whatever this comms thing is, not only is it incredibly unprofessional, it's just _weird_ , and even if it's...” _The most action I’ve had in months and I might be losing my mind over you,_ “ _nice_ , it doesn't matter. Because our jobs are too important to fuck around with. So yeah, I do need to transfer you, either way, but it’s up to you to either talk to me face to face like a goddamn adult or I guess not at all. Because I can't keep jerking off in bathrooms and wooden shacks in the forest with you. I just can’t!" Phil remembered he was still in the middle of a ballroom full of people and composed himself. 

 

An uncomfortably long silence dragged out between them before Clint finally responded.

"You wanna... date me?" 

"If you want to. Yes. And I want to talk to you without having a comm unit in my ear." 

"We talk."

"’Yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ is not talking, it's taking orders."

"Maybe I like taking orders. Don't you like giving them to me, sir?" Clint's voice turned almost coquettish and even if it was ridiculous and wrong that Clint was even now trying to turn their conversation into some kind of phone sex, a shiver ran through Phil's body. 

"Clint! I want, _no_. We need to talk. Properly."

"Now?" 

"Yes. No!" Phil was getting far too flustered. “Will you shut up?”

"You want me to shut up and also talk to you?"

"God dammit, Barton you know what I mean." He caught sight of Clint on the other side of the room and made a beeline for him. He ducked away and they started a discreet and not very fast chase through various rooms peppered with less and less people. Clint disappeared through a doorway and Phil followed, into an empty room with a closed door the other side. They were breaking about 13 different SHIELD protocols by now, Phil thought absently as he turned the knob on the door. 

 

It was some sort of linen closet, lined with shelves full of towels by the looks of it, from the light from the doorway. Clint, barely visible, had his back against the shelves the far end of the tiny room. Phil stepped inside and let the door swing closed behind him. He stepped forward and grabbed at Clint. The room went dark as the door clicked shut and Phil was vaguely aware in the back of his mind that he didn't know if there was a door handle on this side of the door, that the room was totally unsecured, that there was an actual mission out there that they were meant to be doing, but none of it seemed to matter at all because Clint Barton suddenly had his hands on either side of his neck and his soft lips pressing urgently against Phil’s.

 

The room was pitch black, so Phil couldn't see Clint's face as he kissed him back with matching fervour at the same time as trying to desperately get the words out and _talk_ to him.

"I'm not - going to stop - trying - to talk to you." He said between frantic kisses.

"Shut up, sir" Clint pushed his hands inside Phil's jacket, running them up and down his sides over his shirt. "I've wanted you for so long, Coulson. You look so good in that suit, all buttoned up and stiff, like you're one of those assholes out there." He grabbed at the buttons of his shirt, slipping his fingers between the fabric to find... more fabric - Phil's undershirt. "Fuck, how many clothes are you wearing?” 

He swept his hands lower and grabbed at the front of Phil’s trousers, emitting a tiny moan when he brushed over Phil’s hardening cock. He started to unbuckle Phil’s belt but stopped when Phil gripped his wrists.

 

"Clint. We can't. Not here. Listen, _listen_. I want this. You have no idea how much I want... all of this. But we need to-"

"No!" Clint kissed Phil again, more urgently, before resting his forehead against Phil’s, giving up on the belt and just pulling Phil against him. "No talking. Please." He was pleading and his voice fell to a whisper. “Five minutes?” 

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Phil sighed as he felt Clint grind gently into him and thought of all the times over the years he’d given Clint those moments to himself. “Five minutes?” Phil repeated, voice barely above a breath. “Please?” Clint mumbled into Phil’s neck, holding onto Phil’s waist tightly. Phil swallowed and tried to think but was already nodding and kissing Clint’s mouth and whispering, “Ok.”

 

That was all Clint needed to pull at Phil’s belt again, the sound of the buckle sharp and loud in the velvet blackness of the room. Phil felt shelves against his back as Clint pushed him, hands that he’d not let himself fantasize about reaching in and pulling his cock free. Before he could process what was happening, Clint was on his knees and a hot, unyielding wetness engulfed his cock. 

 

“Clint, _shit_. I didn’t mean-” Phil began, but his brain shorted out when Clint pushed forwards and he felt Clint’s nose press against his skin. He finished his sentence with a yelp.

 

Every sound either of them made felt thunderously loud. The gasps and moans Phil couldn’t hold back echoed and multiplied, the wet noises and hums of Clint hungrily sucking at Phil’s cock adding to the cacophony. Phil was lost, eyes closed and colours swirling as Clint attacked him, licking precisely in the places that made Phil come undone, as if he’d done it a thousand times before and this was simply target practice.

 

As if Clint really was on a timer, Phil came after what felt like seconds, grinding his teeth and gripping at the shelves behind him. He moaned and his cock twitched when he heard Clint swallow before pulling off and leaning his head on Phil, panting hot breath across his thigh. Somehow Phil hadn’t even realised that Clint was jerking off right there and he almost buckled, straightened himself up before sinking down anyway to kiss and taste himself in Clint’s mouth. 

 

He felt his way down Clint’s moving arm ‘til he reached his hand, wrapping his own around it and just moving with him more than anything else, stroking up and down and wishing he could see, whispering meaningless words of encouragement, _so good, beautiful, amazing,_ before gripping the back of Clint’s head to kiss him through a trembling orgasm, relishing the warm wetness that spilled into his hand and kissing, kissing, kissing.

 

They knelt there for a long moment ‘til their breaths slowed, Phil passing a towel to Clint after wiping his own hand and leaning his head on Clint’s shoulder. He felt like he might never move again.

 

Phil wanted to keep kissing Clint, press against him, unwrap him from the layers of that delicious suit and just stay there in the dark, where all they were was sound and touch and kisses. But he felt like there was something they were meant to be doing, even if he couldn’t quite remember what it was.

 

“Are you,” Phil began, cupping Clint's cheek, face next to his, breathing the same air. “Are you ok?” 

Clint laughed, a puff of hot air on Phil’s face. “I sure am. Thanks for the five minutes, sir.” 

Phil felt his heart twist, could feel Clint shutting down on him already. "Do you... want this?" Phil said, meaning him, them, this. Clint didn’t reply for a long moment.

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” Phil held his breath. 

He felt Clint nod as he replied a wavering, "Yes?" 

“Will you... will you talk to me? After? After this is over. Please.”

Phil kissed him again, not ready to hear a no or more silence. A last kiss. He felt a burst of hope when Clint took a breath to reply. “Ok.”

 

Phil leaned in to kiss some more, the kisses that answered his a little wary but sweet all the same. Clint whined minutely when Phil finally made himself pull away and stand up, putting his suit to rights as he heard Clint do the same. Clint moved towards the door and Phil put out a hand, solid on Clint’s shoulder. “Tonight, ok?”

Clint paused again before answering, “Alright,” then cracking open the door and making them both blink at the light.

 

-

 

Phil tidied himself up in the bathroom and put thoughts of 'tonight' out of his mind as far as he could and tried even harder once an equally put together Barton stepped back into the ballroom. Everyone was ushered into the main hall where the handover was due to take place. Phil took his seat amongst the clouds of perfume and cologne and tried not to think about Clint at the back of the room. 

 

The speeches began, people clapped politely; it was very tedious and Phil couldn't help but let his mind wander, feeling giddy butterflies and trying not to get ahead of himself but failing, imagining the mundanity of lazy mornings together. Thinking of what they’d be doing right then if they hadn’t come back out. Aching to turn around to look at Clint. 

 

It was at the exact moment that the deeds were being passed from one man in a suit to another that an explosion tore through one side of the building and everything went black.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was that explosion?! Are they ok? Will they ever get to talk?! Find out next time!


	9. Basement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's injured, so Phil brings him a comm unit in hospital. They last maybe half an hour before things get filthsome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES I am so sorry this took so long! There's two more chapters and they're both written and ready to go! :D

A gas pipe of all things had exploded under the venue in Brussels, and even though scepticism was the rule when it came to any kind of bullshit-sounding explanation like that, there did appear to be no evidence to the contrary. Phil had ended up with two broken fingers, which was annoying and inconvenient, but par for the course in his line of work, but was guilt-ridden by Clint's far more extensive injuries. He'd been laid up in medical since the mission with so many bruises he’d been practically more bruise than skin. 

 

Phil visited with snacks and reading material and they made small talk, but it was stilted and awkward, and only Phil's continued pushing kept their conversations going. Phil hated small talk but kept trying and could sense Clint liked him being there but was too polite to tell him to shut up. Too polite or too shy. 

 

Eventually, after long weeks of awkward silences, Phil commandeered a couple of long range comm units from R&D and brought them up the next time he visited Clint along with some comics and Hostess cupcakes. "I’m going to work. But I can talk with you throughout the day if you want." Phil had said, handing him the tiny earpiece.

 

-

 

"I'm gonna get fat." Was the first _real_ thing Clint said to Phil, when he was halfway back down to his car in the elevator. "You keep bringing me this awful processed cake crap." 

Phil laughed under his breath, pleased to hear _that_ voice again. The real one. "I thought you liked those." he replied.

" _You_ like these. I like, y'know, healthy food."

"I'm so sorry Clint, would you like me to bring you a fruit basket next time I visit?" Phil replied dryly.

Clint didn't reply beyond what sounded like shifting in his bed. He was sulking. Clint always sulked when he was injured, and he abhored hospitals so sulked even more.  

 

Phil climbed into his car and switched on the radio, looking over to the passenger seat, empty but for paperwork. 

"Any requests?" Phil asked, fiddling with the buttons to skip through radio stations.

"Sure... you could tell me a story."

 

Phil barked a laugh. Relief that perhaps whatever they'd started, if they'd started anything at all, at least wasn't finished. That Clint still liked him at least a little. "I meant on the _radio_ , Barton." 

There was no reply and the sounds of Rhianna filled the car.

"Are you pouting?" 

"No."

"I'm going to work. I can't be telling you dirty stories. I haven't even had my coffee yet." 

Phil heard Clint sigh heavily. 

"I missed you." 

Phil felt a small twist of something inside his chest, both sad and happy at once. 

"I was right there, Clint." 

"I mean like this. Talking." 

"I was right there." Phil repeated. "You can say anything you would over comms to my face. I'm not... I'm not going to do anything."

"I know. I'm sorry." 

"It's alright, don't apologise. We can... _do_ whatever you want, ok?" 

"I want you."

Phil's toes curled a little in his shoes and he bit his lip, glad Clint couldn't see him. "I want you too." 

"Yeah?" Clint replied, sounding like maybe he was blushing or at least doing the awkward smile he did when Phil said he was proud of something he’d done. Phil desperately wanted to see that again. That pink blush across Clint's light skin. He realised the light he was stopped at had turned green just as someone beeped at him to get moving. 

"Are you just trying to get me to tell you a story?" Phil asked, deflecting a little, perhaps.

"Maybe," Clint replied, perhaps deflecting too.

 

"Alright, well. What kind of story do you want?" 

Clint was silent for a moment, thinking over his answer. "Tell me about the first time you saw me." 

 

Phil twisted his hands on the steering wheel and smiled to himself at the memory.

"The first time I saw you was on the range at HQ. You were still using a gun of course. I thought after you were done that someone had replaced your target sheet-"

"All a clear bullseye, right?" 

"Yep." Phil smiled. He'd almost kept that target paper, with it's single hole in the middle, one hole for twenty bullets one after the other. Not for the first time, he wished he had kept it afterall. 

 

"You didn't look comfortable, though. I remember that. Even with that perfect round, you looked pissed off about it. And then you were in my group of new recruits. That was the first time I met you properly." 

 

"C'mon Phil you know you saw me another time, too." 

Phil stifled a gasp. "How do you know about-" he swallowed, feeling a light blush creep over his own cheeks. "Well why don't you tell _me_ what happened?"

"You being prudish about checking out my ass, sir?"  

"To be fair, I didn't realise you were anything to do with SHIELD at the time."

 

Clint was right, Phil had seen him again, but hadn't realised that the shapely behind he found his eyes drawn to as he waited for his coffee belonged to the hot shot new recruit until he'd turned around. Phil thought he'd managed to pull it off unseen, but apparently not so.

 

"I didn't know you'd noticed." 

"Well I am Hawkeye." 

 

-

 

The rest of the drive was contentedly quiet, and it warmed Phil knowing Clint was there with him listening in on the sounds of his morning commute. The pings of the turn signal, the security guard greeting him good morning, the blips of the car's locks. 

 

He checked his pigeon hole for mail on the way to the cafeteria to get coffee. The coffee at SHIELD was bad, but something about it's badness was what clicked his brain into gear. Good coffee was for sitting back and luxuriating, bad coffee was for business. He'd almost forgotten Clint was still in his ear when he suddenly piped up asking what pastry he was going to have, and Phil chuckled under his breath, making sure to mention to the cashier how glad he was that he'd gotten the last almond croissant, for Clint's benefit. 

 

"Do you have low blood sugar or something?" Clint asked, sounding like he was eating something himself. "I don't want to find out," Phil replied once he was back in his office, eating the croissant over the trashcan so flakes of pastry wouldn't make a mess. "I don't know if I've ever seen you sit down and eat an actual gods-honest meal," Clint said, like he'd just thought of it. "You've not seen me do a lot of things." Phil replied, throwing the last bite of the croissant - the end, devoid of sweet almond paste - in the trash. 

 

Phil unlocked his desk drawer and sat down as he pulled his planner towards him - paper - much to most everyone else's chagrin. He went through his lists, things to do that day, things to do by the end of the week, long term projects. It was indecipherable to most anyone else, made up of code names and acronyms that Phil rejigged himself anyway, giving things new names like 'Headache' and 'Home Depot', or just replacing them with a symbol or two. Some things were less obscure, like meetings with various personnel or scheduled range time, and in any case, the page was sent to be destroyed at the end of each day, a fresh one the last thing to cross Phil's desk before home time, filled out and ready for tomorrow.

 

"Working on your Rosetta Stone, sir?" Clint asked. 

"Rosetta Stone?" Phil replied, feigning confusion. 

"That list of yours. I figured out the spider means Nat, and 'Eyeball' must mean Fury. But the thing for me, it looks like a ‘W’ or an upside down bird or something, I can't figure that one out."

The upside down bird was a number three on it's side. A crude butt. 

Phil declined to answer. "That's classified, Barton," he said, but with a smile in his voice, a smile he found it hard to hide, colouring his words lightly. 

 

The first order of business that day was to go over a sheaf of junior agent reports; the part of Phil's job that was most akin to being a school teacher. Since they were first tries, they tended to read a little like 'What I Did On Summer Vacation' assignments. The first one on the pile was written in green ink, and Phil sighed to himself and by extension, to Clint.

 

"Are you looking at junior reports?!" Clint exclaimed, far more excited than he'd ever been before about paper work in all the time Phil had known him. The sigh must have given him away. "Do you have a camera trained on me?" He asked, which made Clint laugh. "Nah, I just know that sigh. That's the sigh you make whenever me or Tony hand you a report. And I know there's been no big missions lately so it must be the juniors. What was the mission this time?" He sounded ever so energetic, and it was nice to hear him sounding so lively after weeks of morose hospital sulking.

 

"It was the dragon simulation."

"The _dragon simulation?!_ You guys did that while I was in here? Aw _c'mon_." 

"I'm sorry, it wasn't my call. Maybe when you're better we can run it for the team." 

"That would be so awesome," Clint said seriously. "Will you read me one?" Phil huffed a little laugh and began.

"Alright. This one is written in green ink for context, ok?"

"E gads, green ink! Heaven forfend!" 

"It doesn't show up on the copier, Clint! There are reasons for the guidelines."

"Yeah yeah."

"Hmm. Well let's see, the form's mostly filled out correctly: ammo count, uniform check, dates, times, positions..." Phil scanned it over and got to the good part, the written mission report. 

" _Large, lizard-like creature, attacked team. Given information that it would eject flames and had ability to fly. Attempted to halt creature with one clip of six (6) bullets-"_ Phil broke off to note that he had written the numbers as per the guidelines, _"but this was unsuccessful. Was informed by supervisor that I had failed the test."_  

"Six bullets?!" Clint laughed and Phil tutted in agreement with his incredulity. Not only was six bullets far from enough to take down a _dragon_ , the test was intended to measure agents ability to improvise and read the situation more than actually take down a threat by force. The fact that this report didn't even use the word 'dragon' showed that perhaps this junior might not be suited for field work. SHIELD had to deal with all sorts of threats, but if you couldn't call a dragon a dragon, you were probably more cut out for the FBI.

 

The next report was much the same, albeit in black ink. That agent had also failed the test. 

 

"Ah, you'll like this one, Clint," Phil said, turning over the next in the pile. It looked like it had soot on it and was crumpled somewhat. " _A motherfucking-”_ he broke off to jot a note about swearing in the margin “- _DRAGON came out of nowhere. It was purple. I threw some change at it like it maybe would think it was treasure or something, and tried to tie it up. I got kind of burned but Agent Sitwell said I passed even though it got away."_ Clint cheered and Phil laughed. "He follows that up with, _I'd kind of like my change back. It was about a dollar fifty."_

"Damn straight!" Clint laughed, indignant. "First time I did that test I lost all my vending machine money."

Phil marked on the form that forms needed to be handled with care, e.g: no soot, and noted the other errors, but placed it in his 'find out more' pile.

 

They continued in the same way until Clint sounded sleepy, replying less and less, and Phil lapsing into silence as he listened absently to Clint softly snoring. This test wouldn't determine anything drastic for the agents in question, but would go in their larger files to help decide where and what they'd be tasked with next. Phil clipped the best ones together with a green paperclip, the worst with a red one, and put the rest underneath both, putting them all back in their original file and putting that into the duplication tray. A copy of each would be given back to each agent so they could read over the notes given while the original would be filed. Phil would investigate the green-clipped ones later, always eager to spot bright young talent that was rough around the edges and help out if he could. You never knew when another Hawkeye might turn up. 

 

Clint woke up a short while later, yawning audibly and cracking his neck or his knuckles, Phil wasn't sure. Phil went back out to the cafeteria for more coffee, taking the reports with him so he could copy and file them himself, quicker that he do it than leave it for admin staff. It would also give him a chance to quickly go over the interesting individuals he'd turned up.

"Another coffee break, huh?" Clint drawled, sounding half asleep. Phil didn't answer since he was in the cafeteria line, silent until he caught Gladys's eye and asked for coffee. "How many sugars you using, eight?" Clint asks, just as Phil is stirring in his _three_ sugars and feeling utterly predictable. 

 

The copy room was as busy as it always was when Phil entered, but a machine was thankfully free and he got to work, feeding in the pages and quietly relishing the warmth of the fresh, double-sided copies. "You rubbing your face on the copies?" Clint asked sleepily and Phil almost cursed. How did Clint _know_ he sometimes did that when no one was around? "I've got something you can rub your face on." Clint drawled, making Phil's eyebrows shoot up. "My dick." Clint finished redundantly. He must be on the really good drugs, Phil thought, hoping that Clint would fall right back to sleep, but he didn't. 

 

"So hard talking to you, Phil. S'like my dick gets all excited when you're in my ear." And Phil was definitely not picturing Clint touching himself under his hospital sheets, thinking of him. "Wish you were here. I'd... god, I'd kiss you. And you'd touch my dick. Hmm, and I'd touch yours. I keep thinking about that closet, Phil. You with your fat cock in my mouth, all hot and hard and smooth. Keep thinking about your hands in my hair. And on my neck, and the hairs on your legs and..." It sounded like he fell back asleep again, and for a moment, Phil breathed a silent sigh of relief, but then he heard a whispered " _Phil_ " and a whimper and no, Clint hadn't fallen asleep.

 

Phil was glad of the myriad diversion tactics he had accumulated over the years, setting a pile of boxes of paper to tip over so he could walk out of the room with his copies covering his tented pants just as they crashed. He made it back to his office and drank his lukewarm coffee in a single gulp, willing his erection away by thinking about the things under Nick's eyepatch. Clint was silent now, so he assumed he must have fallen asleep again, venturing out now that he wasn't being betrayed by his traitorous smaller self. 

 

-

 

The archive room was huge, boxes upon boxes of artifacts, evidence and other bits and bobs that had washed into SHIELD over the years. A smaller room to one side held employee records, and Phil keyed in his code to enter. It was a cool, calm, quiet room, and he had it to himself. It was a maze of filing cabinets with a few desks along one wall and some ratty office chairs. No one spent much time in here beyond getting or putting away files, though Phil rather liked it empty, a little hideaway of his own. He rifled through files, putting the reports away and pulling out any that belonged to his interesting agents until he'd done them all and had a heap of files to look over. He sat at one of the desks and began to pore through them. 

 

When Clint crackled back to wakefulness, Phil waited to see what he had to say before admonishing him for his little... whatever that had been. "You there?" Clint eventually asked. "Yes, I'm here." Phil replied, evenly.

"Are you mad at me?" 

"A little." 

"Don't be mad at me." Clint said, pouting, probably.

"I-" Phil shook his head to himself. "I'm not. Just... you... I can't... I'm at work."

Clint remained silent for a minute and Phil picked up his file again. 

"Can't what?" 

"You _know_ what!" Phil grinned despite himself.

 

"I know you like me," Clint teased after another minute, voice full of self satisfaction, and it shouldn't be as hot as it was, it really shouldn't. But Phil’s cock gave a twitch of excitement and he was glad the door was locked. 

 

"How do you know that?" Phil teased back, angling his back towards the camera in the corner of the ceiling so no one would know he was flirting to himself in there. 

"Cause you think I'm cute." 

"Cute, huh?" 

"Yeah, you think I'm sexy, too." 

"So what if I do?" Phil countered, not admitting a thing.

"So... You like me." Clint said, matter of factly. 

It was one thing to do whatever this was on a mission, when, alright, there was a job to do, but frequently nothing to do for long stretches of time, and they were alone regardless. It was quite another to do it at SHIELD HQ. Panicky excitement curled in Phil's belly as he continued despite himself.

 

"What are you going to do about it?" Phil asked, flipping a file open for appearances sake. He should just head out to a bathroom right now, really, but... the files - he'd have to sign each one out on the ledger before leaving, and he couldn't just leave them. 

Clint replied, "Suck your dick." It made Phil shiver and he looked at the door again before letting his hand drift beneath the table to press down on his crotch, rub there a moment of sweet friction. 

 

"Yeah? Suck my dick, huh?" 

"Uh huh, and I'll make it _so_ good for you, Phil. I'll swallow everything you give me."

"Jesus, Clint." 

Phil could hear Clint's breaths change in tone as he smiled to himself all the way back in the hospital. He wanted to be there and see that smile; Wanted to see all the other things Clint was promising him for no good reason.

"You like that, huh?" Clint continued as Phil put his hand beneath the desk to open his fly, slide his hand inside to touch himself. Take the edge off. He should just go to the bathroom, but it was a floor away. 

"Clint. I'm at work. I can't-"

"Sure you can, sir. Hell I do it all the time."

Phil did not need to think about Clint jerking off wherever the hell he holed himself away at SHIELD. Except he really did. He was the one who'd brought this on, flirting back like he was. What did he expect, that he wouldn't get hard when Clint started saying... those things? 

 

He didn't get to keep wrestling with his conscience because Clint softly asked, "are you touching yourself, sir?" and he realised he had his cock in his hand and was halfway to coming, imagining Clint under the desk sucking him down with his hands wrapped behind Phil’s knees.

"What do you think?" 

"It's no fun if you don't spell it out."

Phil took a breath and determined if this was happening, here in the record archive of all places, locked door or no, it had to be fast and efficient. "I'm picturing you sat under this desk with my dick in your mouth." Clint gives him a dirty little cackle. "Yeah? How about under your office desk while you're talking to a roomful of people? Tony Stark, Fury. _Steve_." 

 

Phil couldn’t hold in the little breathy noises he made as he tried to be _done_ already, be done and take out the earpiece and go back to his office like an actual professional. It was all the worse when Clint started making little pornographic sounds. "I can't wait to get your cock back in my mouth, do you know how many times I've beat off thinking about it? Thinking about it inside me, sliding in, owning me." 

All Phil could answer with was a pained whimper as he came over his hand and on the underside of the desk before crumpling over it, panting. Hot and uncomfortable and he'd barely rocked through the aftershocks before starting to feel about a thousand different things which mostly added up to crushing embarrassment. Clint made the gasps that Phil was so familiar with now as he tucked himself back into his trousers and tried to clean up as best he could with the tissues he had in his pocket. He'd dealt with worse with less, and though his trousers would need to be dry cleaned, the worst was dealt with. 

 

-

 

"I can't believe I just did that." Phil said, stricken, waiting for some kind of answer from Clint but he'd fallen asleep again. It's for the best, Phil decided, not sure he'd be able to deal with Clint's sass right then, when he had to get back to his office yesterday. It was almost 1pm and he knew there was something happening then but couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was. Clint fried his brain.

 

He did sign out the files, stopped off at the bathroom to splash his face - flushed cheeks and all - with cold water and wash his hands. He flushed the evidence and felt... he felt _naughty_ , which he hadn't felt since he was perhaps ten years old. It was unfamiliar and exhillarating. And terrifying.

 

Back in his office, Phil took out his earpiece and stashed it safely in his pocket, turned off. He sent Clint a text to say he had a meeting and then realised that of all people, Steve Rogers was who his 1 o'clock was with. Since Phil's mantra had always been "What Would Captain America Do?", he was doubly ashamed of what he'd just done. Captain America would never ever beat off in the archive room. Opening the window and praying Steve wouldn’t notice anything about the slight rumpled-ness of his attire or the still pink wash over his cheeks, he flicked through the files and waited til 1pm on the dot, when Steve knocked. 

 

"Come in," Phil called, and there stood Steve, wearing the 'old man clothes' that Phil had helped the acquisitions team find when he was still in the ice. Steve just wanted to know if it was possible to visit Clint in the hospital, still not au fait with the concept of just giving someone a call or even texting them to find out little bits of information. Tony had already asked Phil for the same information and been freely given it, but evidently the message had not been passed on. 

 

Phil ate a quiet lunch but didn’t dare put the earpiece back in, why, he wasn’t sure. Fearful of the potential for inappropriate boners, even if he was pretty spent by then. Perhaps later... but he couldn’t think about that. No. That was silly. When he returned to his office he would put the earpiece back in and try to talk to clint, make some kind of rules, boundaries. Guidelines.

 

"Clint?"

"Hi."

"Clint, I like having you in my ear -"

"But this is inappropriate, yeah I get it, you don't have to say it." Clint sounded resigned, pissed off, like he'd broken a new toy after only having it a little while.

"I'll come see you after work? Steve's on his way to see you now, so get ready for the soup."

"Oh god." Steve liked to make anyone in the team who got sick a very war-time chicken soup which, despite being rather flavourless, did seem to work wonders on people. He'd made it for Phil when he'd been let out of intensive care and allowed solid food again, made it for an ungrateful-but-secretly-incredibly-touched Tony on multiple occasions. He was a big lumbering sweetheart really. Clint had it whenever he was stuck in medical, but under duress, complaining the entire time yet finishing it all regardless. 

"And you'll eat it." Phil said, before Clint could whine about it. 

 

Phil was unsure about what to do with Clint when he visited him in person. His ebullient persona that he was used to over the comms just vanished when he was actually there, and it hurt to see him clam up like he did. After telling him to finish the soup, taking it to the nurses station and heating it up himself, Phil oversaw him finish it all, and they sat for a little while longer, Phil reading over those files and asking Clint's opinion every now and again, Clint folding origami cranes out of finished crosswords. 

 

When the time came to leave, Phil steeled himself and leaned over Clint to brush his fingers through his hair. Clint flinched, but then stilled, leaning in to the touch and closing his eyes, and that was enough of a victory, really, but since his eyes were closed - a big show of trust for a sniper - Phil took another risk and leant down to brush his lips over Clint's forehead. It was warm and smooth and he smelled so _Clint_ , and Phil just wanted to stay there and climb inside that soothing smell, beneath the hospital and cheap washing powder. 

 

Clint's eyes snapped open but Phil was already straightening up, his briefcase in one hand and keys in the other. He smiled down at Clint with only fondness and bade him goodnight. Clint didn't say anything back but Phil could feel his eyes on him all the way out of the building.

 

-

 

Still not having figured out any kind of rules with these earpieces, Phil took his out after a quick frozen dinner, showered trying not to think about Clint being there with him - getting to rub soap into his muscles and take him to bed to smooth out the knots his physio reports always said his shoulder blades were riddled with. But of course he did think of those things and was hard by the time he slipped into his too-big bed that had only been for him for so long. The earpiece was on the bedside table and Phil looked at it for a moment trying to tell himself he wasn't going to put it back in. The lights were off and it was just his voice and the sound of Clint in his ear. But Clint was asleep, soft breathing in and out, very faint beeping just on the edge of it. And that's how Phil fell asleep too.

 

 

 


	10. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast a-la comms. Phil picks up Clint. They go on a (somewhat disastrous) date... But Clint comes home with Phil and things happen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was betaed but then I fooled around with it behind the bike sheds afterwards a few times so any and all mistakes are my eternal shame and embarrassment.

The next day at breakfast, Clint laughed and said they'd slept together now, and Phil somewhat overly seriously asked if that would be something Clint would want to do in real life after he's discharged, going out on something of a limb. They'd still not really broached the subject of _after this_ yet, and Phil was apprehensive to say the least.

 

There was a tense few moments before Clint breathed out a tentative "yes?" and Phil tried to joke about it. "Don’t be too enthusiastic."

"No! I do. I definitely do. Would. Want to try that. And I liked when you kissed me last night. It was like a date or something. Even though I'm the worst date ever." 

"Your conversation skills are a little lacking sometimes," Phil conceded.

"I'm sorry."

"Don’t! Don't be sorry, I was just. I just want you to be ok. And...." Phil didn't know what he wanted, really. But there wasn't really going to be an opportunity to put all his cards on the table that was much better than this, not if Clint couldn't talk to him in person. "I'll tell you exactly what I want, alright? And you can tell me what you want, and we can figure it out from there." Phil opened a packet of pop tarts that he'd been graced with after Thor got sent a literal truck load after telling some news channel he liked them. He put them in the toaster and began to make coffee. 

"Sure." Clint said, sounding anything but.

 

“Alright,” Phil began, "I'd like to eat dinner with you. Whatever you want to eat, wherever you want to go."

"I'd like it more if you picked a place," Clint interrupted, and Phil smilingly agreed. Vague progress.

"But you don't need to get to know me. You already know everything there is to know."

"I'd like to spend some time with you outside of SHIELD, though. I might know your file back to front, but I don't know what you look like when you eat spaghetti. I don't even know if you like spaghetti. I don't know what kind of movies you like to watch. I don't know all that much about Clint Barton, human being. But the little I do know, I like ok." 

"Just ok?" 

"Well, I don't want to get ahead of myself." 

Clint scoffed but it was a good sound.

 

"And what else?" 

"I'd like to kiss you. And I'd like... I'd like all the things we've discussed in length previously," Phil finished curtly. Not willing to get derailed down that increasingly well worn route so fast. "What would you like, Clint, before the kissing?" Phil asked, hoping... not sure what for. 

 

"What you said sounds pretty good, sir." 

"I'm not sir right now. I'm Phil. If Phil asked you out on a date, would you go?" Clint hesitated before answering, and Phil watched steam drift up off of the coffee pot.

"Honestly I've never really been a dater. I don't... get how that whole thing works. I mean if you want to take me someplace to eat, that's cool. I like food. But then I don't get how it works, you know? You're eating one minute and the next, what, you're making out in a taxi?" 

"Have you never been on a date before?"

"Not really. I usually just pick people up in bars. Or they pick me up." 

That made something uneasy shift in Phil's stomach and he was glad of his coffee being ready. The poptarts were cooling. 

 

"Would you rather I did that? Meet you in a bar and pretend I don't know you?" 

"No. No definitely not. I guess... we'll just see how it goes? When I'm done here. We'll go to eat and you can ask me what my favourite TV shows are and I'll try. Ok? I'll try to talk to you without freaking out and shutting down. I don't even know what my problem is, I'm sorry."

"Stop apologising. I think maybe you just... compartmentalise things and this thing between us is kind of messing with that, perhaps. But tell me now, if I kissed you, would you... be opposed to that?" 

Phil figured that perhaps the key, or one of the keys, to all this might just be taking the reins and making the first move - the first five or ten moves, if Clint was too shy to initiate anything. 

"No... hell no. Jesus I'm so frigid, I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm usually pretty smooth." 

"I'm sure you are." Phil tried to deny himself the little thrill that the idea that no one else flustered Clint quite like he did gave him. "You're still _kinda_ smooth." 

"Ugh, shut up."

"Maybe Tony can give you some pointers."

"Do you really want me to pull out of this already?"

" _No_ ,” Phil replied sweetly chiding him. “You know I don't." 

 

Phil ate in what he hoped was companionable silence. “So you have what, two more days before they let you out?”

“Yeah, unless I can sweet talk my way out before then.” 

“Which you won’t be doing.”

Clint laughed down the line. 

“What?” Phil asked. 

“I just had a vision of what my life is going to be from now on.”

 

\--

 

The next few days passed with little incident, and Clint only tried to escape once, which Phil was relatively sure was just for form’s sake more than anything else. They spoke via the comms with Phil visiting every now and again and pressing the most chaste of kisses to Clint’s forehead and cheek. 

 

Phil picked him up with his small bag of things, feeling a frisson of happiness and excitement to have Clint back in his car, with more between them making the air feel thick and heavy. Phil wanted to bring him back to his own apartment, keep him on the couch and bring him soup and magazines and coddle him in the most domestic of ways, but knew Clint too well for that. 

 

“Do you want to get lunch before we head to HQ?” Phil asked, tapping the wheel at a stoplight. “Nah, I’ve kinda missed the crap they have at base. Tastes like home, you know?” Phil did know, but it seemed sad that the bland food at SHIELD was what tasted like home to either of them. “Then dinner tonight? I’d really like to take you somewhere,” Phil said, looking at Clint and not even trying to hide the hope on his face.

“Sure, yeah. Alright,” Clint replied, looking at his hands in his lap. 

Phil smiled for the rest of the drive.

 

The day actually flew by, with briefings and overseeing training sessions filling the time so that Phil had barely any time to think about Clint. He passed him in the hallway once, but was treated to a curt head-nod rather than anything else, not that he would have expected it. 

 

They met at 7.30 in the parking lot, at Phil’s car. Clint smelled like cologne when he got in, which thrilled Phil a little - he’d never smelled cologne on Clint before, now he came to think of it. “Is Italian food alright?” Phil asked, hopeful since Clint frequently picked Italian-type foods whenever they ate together. “Sure, sounds great!” Clint said, a little too loud. 

 

-

 

The restaurant was high in Phil’s favourites, but not such a favourite that the owner would come out and exclaim things and ask questions about who “Phillipe’s new friend is?!” like they would at his actual favourite place. Perhaps later, if things actually worked out.

 

“So I finally get to see you eat spaghetti,” Phil said, after their waitress had left. Clint smiled but still didn’t make eye contact, “sure, I guess.” Phil stifled a sigh. The waitress brought them a bottle of wine and they drank a quiet toast to the junior agents before lapsing into silence once more. “If it helps,” Phil began, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “think of it like a mission. Figure out what your goal is and then work the situation to achieve it. Forget that it’s me, think of me as a mark. If it helps.” 

 

After a moment, Clint fixed Phil with his perfect eyes and said, quietly so that no one but Phil could hear him, “I want to suck your dick, Phil.” 

 

Phil choked on his wine, spluttering and getting red wine splashed over the white linen tablecloth, the napkins and even a few specks on Clint’s shirt, and suddenly Clint was laughing, ringing and bright, his face broken into beautiful lines. Phil started laughing too, til the pair of them were laughing hysterically and drawing looks from the rest of the restaurant. 

 

After that, the date went much better, though still not completely smoothly, Clint still wasn’t completely himself no matter what Phil tried, but it was still nice to be in one another’s company in a new context, and there was always the odd promise of what may be to come afterwards. 

 

Phil drove them home, letting Clint in and then, before any more stilted conversation or awkward silences, closed the front door and marched up to kiss him in the middle of his living room. 

 

Clint melted in his arms, gone pliant and elastic and so so sweet. He kissed back and held on to Phil’s lapels, sliding his tongue into Phil’s mouth and moaning when Phil sucked it. “I’m sorry,” Clint said quietly between kisses, when Phil’s hands were on his ass, “I was such a shitty date.” Phil made a sound of disagreement as Clint slid a hand into his now unbuttoned shirt. “Not that shitty.”

 

They found their way blindly to the couch, Clint straddling Phil before kissing his way across his chest and up his neck. Phil lightly gripped his waist, feeling him there, solid and real, letting him rut against him and devour him. He pulled him in by gripping his ass, finally feeling it under his greedy hands, feeling him move against Phil for the little friction he could give from the angle they were at, considering they both still had their trousers on. 

 

Phil had his mouth on Clint’s again and ate up the little noises he was making, feeling the delicious hard promise he was grinding into him until he suddenly shuddered and stilled, burying his head into Phil’s shoulder with a groan. 

“Oh my god...” Clint mumbled, and Phil could feel how red his face was from the heat it was throwing off. “What is it?” Phil asked when it was clear Clint wasn’t going to continue.

 

Clint pulled away and stood, not meeting Phil’s eyes. Then Phil saw the translucent whiteness glistening on the front of his trousers that Clint threw up his hand in despair at. “Look at me, what the fuck is wrong with me!?” 

 

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Clint. Nothing at all,” Phil smiled up at him, “do you have any idea how flattering it is that I could make you that excited without even laying a hand on you?” 

Clint shrugged uncomfortably, looking away. “You totally _did_ lay a hand on me,” he mumbled. 

Phil grinned. “Come back here,” he tugged at Clint’s wrist and he went, sitting next to Phil and leaning in when pulled to his side, letting Phil wrap his arm around him. They both agreeably ignored Phil’s erection, still covered by tented pants, but unlikely to go anywhere with Clint in his arms. 

 

“I like you being here. And I like kissing you,” Phil said softly, “and I’d like it if you stayed the night.” Clint shifted around so he could look at Phil’s face. “Really? Even with-” 

“I don’t care about that, Clint,” Phil said dismissively, and really, he didn’t. They remained silent for a while until Phil spoke again. “I have some spare clothes that are about your size, and my bed is really comfortable. And for breakfast I have Pop-Tarts, if you aren’t too bored of them yet.” Clint laughed, “Ok, ok I’ll stay! You don’t have to convince me.” 

 

Phil smiled, as much to himself as anyone else, squeezing Clint gently before getting up, pulling him with him and politely not looking at the mess. “I can’t believe I just came in my pants in front of you,” Clint said, leaning into Phil’s shoulder as he stood facing him, “I’m so _lame_.”

“It’s fine. Come to bed. You can borrow my Captain America jammies.” 

“Ugh, at least you’re even lamer than me.”

“Thank you,” Phil said, leading Clint to his bedroom. 

 

“Would you like to take a shower?” he asked, letting go of Clint for a moment to open drawers for clothes and fresh towels. “Oh god, yes please. I mean I could just go home, I’m sorry I’m such a disaster.” 

“No! Clint stop being such a jackass. Remember, figure out your goal. I mean, I know what my goal is. But I don’t think yours is to go home right now.” 

Clint took a deep breath. “Shall I tell you I want to suck your dick again?” 

They both laughed and it once again relieved the tension. Phil showed Clint how the shower worked, turning and fully intending to leave, but being pulled towards the stream by a perfect arm instead. 

 

Clint was as perfect as Phil had ever dared to dream, seeing him albeit with water and then soap in his eyes. Slicked with water and somehow deliciously _un_ selfconscious naked, as though without clothes he was free of the anxiety he was the rest of the time, at least around Phil. As thought it was his natural state. He backed Phil against the cold tile wall with chest-to-chest kisses before sliding down to his knees, rubbing up and down Phil’s legs as he sucked him down and holding them steady when they threatened to give out.

 

“Did you achieve your goal?” Phil asked breathlessly when Clint rose back up to kiss him again, salty beneath the taste of clean water. “Mm hmm,” Clint hummed into Phil’s mouth, hands sliding over his chest and around his waist again, holding him up til the hot water ran cold. 

 

They spent the night laying side by side, not touching, too warm from the shower. When Phil woke up in the night, unused to someone else being in his bed, he was rewarded anew with the sight of a sleeping Clint Barton beside him. It was only by chance that he didn’t catch Clint doing the same.

 


	11. Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE FINAL CHAPTER  
> It's pretty much all porn.

Phil woke the next day slowly, blinking awake fast but when he realised it was Clint there, pressing soft, warm lips to his neck, he pulled back to stay in his half-sleeping state, to calmly wait and see what happened next. 

 

Clint’s lips drifted over Phil’s neck, across his throat, softly sucking and not pausing at Phil’s exhaled sigh of pleasure. Hands slipped under his tshirt, rucking it up further to caress his side and pull him in slightly, still not knocking him out of his sleepy state. Everything felt like warm molasses: sweet and slow and thick.

 

Phil vaguely knew he was hard, but was reminded when Clint brushed a hand over him so lightly it almost didn’t count, except that it did, making his cock jump and a tiny gasp escape his lips. 

“Good morning,” Clint said, looking up from Phil’s chest where he was planting more kisses with bright eyes. “Hi,” Phil replied, a lazy grin sliding across his face. Clint slid down, kissing Phil’s stomach, the thin skin at his hips, Phil just watching in sleepy awe.

 

Wriggling down further, Clint pulled Phil’s pants with him, eyeing Phil as he licked a stripe up his length. “Stop,” Phil pleaded gently, “come here,” gesturing for Clint to come to his arms. He did so, Phil realising for the first time that Clint was already naked, hard and warm against his leg and far less shy than he’d been before. It was a nice change. 

 

Clint wrapped himself around Phil and kissed him long and slow, bucking against him just enough to express just what he was after. He kissed away to Phil’s ear to whisper into it, hot breath making Phil shiver. “I want you to fuck me, Phil,” he breathed, pulling away to look right into Phil’s eyes. Phil nodded dumbly back, suddenly rolling the two of them to cover Clint with his own kisses before reaching down to palm at his cock, his balls and then lower to brush over his- Phil looked up in shock and Clint smirked at him. “All ready to go,” he cooed, pulling his legs up to give Phil better access to his ready-lubed ass. 

 

Phil pushed a finger easily in and moaned at how slick and warm Clint was around it. “How did you?” Phil asked, and Clint smirked again as he reached under the pillow and felt around for a moment before pulling out a bottle of lube - the one from Phil’s bedside cabinet. Somehow the thought of Clint stealthily rooting through there without waking him up sent a shiver through Phil, and he pushed another finger easily into Clint as he kissed him possessively. 

 

“You’re amazing, Clint,” he said, dragging his hand up Clint’s cock again to get a hold of it and actually feel it properly for the first time. Mindful of the episode from the previous night, Phil took the opportunity to lean down to suck on it and finally taste the cock he’d spent the last too-many-months dreaming about. He moaned, pulling off for a moment to look back up at Clint, who looked a little lost. When he went back to start licking again Clint touched his shoulder. “Don’t, you’ll make me come. I want, let me-” he pulled Phil up again and maneuvered them so that he was straddling Phil. Before Phil could do much of anything, Clint had slicked up his cock and was sliding himself down on it, gripping his own cock tightly at the base. They stayed like that while Clint just looked down at Phil, unmoving, just drinking in this moment - the moment they’d been leading up to for all this time. Clint already looked so far gone, his chest and neck pink hued and dewy. He let go of his cock to place his hands on Phil’s chest before beginning the slow lift up and equally slow drop back down. 

 

“Oh my god, all this time. All this time we could have been doing this, Phil,” Clint said shallowly, closing his eyes as he rocked himself up and down. “I didn’t know, Clint,” Phil breathed, “I wish I’d known. But, but we’re doing it now. Oh god my dick is, fucking inside you right now, Clint!” Clint gave a laugh which turned into a gasp and then a moan. “Does it, does it feel good?” Phil asked, gripping his hips and bracing his legs so he could fuck up into Clint, making him cry out in pleasure. “Fuck yes, sir. Phil.” It shouldn’t have been hot, having Clint call him sir in bed, but that didn’t make it less so. 

 

Clint pushed down on Phil’s chest to make him slow down and then rolled his hips, fucking himself again but without even moving his top half. Phil let out a gasp of arousal mixed with surprise at Clint’s flexibility. “You like that? _Sir_?” Phil nodded his head, at a loss for words. “You feel so good inside me, Phil, filling me up. Even better than I imagined it. Bigger, too. So fucking good.” 

 

The pace was torturously slow, agonizing, but Phil would take it as long as Clint was letting him have it. He started going faster and Phil began to move with him, sweet friction making pleasure vibrate through his body. Soon, Clint braced himself on his knees above Phil for him to push up into him, til they both rolled so that Clint was on his back and Phil was bearing down over him, pushing his legs back to grind in deeply. “Yes, yes, there, Phil, mmhm,” Clint moaned, pulling Phil down by his neck to kiss him wetly. 

 

“Fuck me, Phil,” Clint said into his mouth, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Give it to me,” was all it took for Phil to hold on and pound into him, watching him just take it and beg for more. 

Eventually Phil reached for Clint’s cock, batting his hands away when Clint tried to stop him. “I want to see you come, Clint, I wanna _make_ you come,” Phil said, wrapping his hand around it and barely making a dozen strokes before Clint was tightening around him and spurting over Phil’s hand and his own stomach. 

 

Phil began to pull out so he could finish across Clint’s stomach too, but Clint grabbed at him. “No, please... do it. Come inside me?” When Phil hesitated, all it took was Clint’s “please?” to finish him off, slamming in and collapsing over him as he came, shaking into him. 

 

-

 

They laid together in a sticky mess for a while, Phil fighting off the urge to drift back into sleep again, but determined to keep awake to see what Clint did next. He could already feel the adrenaline humming through him, itching to get out and away. He wouldn’t meet Phil’s eyes. 

“Do you want to leave?” Phil asked, hand still curled over his side. Clint looked at him properly in surprise. “Oh. Sure, sorry. Yeah. I’ll just-”

“ _I_ don’t want you to leave,” Phil said quickly, pulling him in tighter, “but I won’t keep you here if you really want to go.” he held his breath as he waited for Clint to react. He looked completely lost. “I don’t want this to be a one time thing...”

Somehow that seemed to centre Clint, and he visibly relaxed. “Nor do I,” he said eventually, turning so he could look properly at Phil, “I don’t want this to be a one time thing either.” Phil smiled, “then it’s settled. Shower?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say, thank you so much for your patience. I didn't expect this to end up so long or take me so much time to write. I really enjoyed writing it though! Thanks for all your kind comments and praise, and the various prods people have given me to get it done. I hope the conclusion is to your satisfaction.


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